


Hotel California

by Shippershape



Series: Stretch & Dr. Goodkin [19]
Category: Stitchers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippershape/pseuds/Shippershape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gang get sent on an overnight case, and Maggie didn't book enough rooms. Also, the motel is a dump, cots are not a thing, and Cameron is a gentleman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotel California

“Oh my god.” Camille halts to a stop, causing Kirsten to walk straight into her. The two girls stare up at the motel in front of them, sporting matching looks of horror.

“This is-that can’t be right.” Cameron says from behind them, setting his suitcase down on the pavement. The building is a single story, crumbling stucco and peeling paint. What might once have been white has turned to gray, and there’s a distinctly unpleasant odour hanging in the air. It smells vaguely of socks and mould, and the scorching heat does little to improve on that. Linus reads the motel name in his confirmation e-mail. They all wince when it matches the burnt out sign hanging from the roof.

“It’s so…” Camille can’t seem to find a word for what exactly it is.

“Sinister?” Linus offers. Kirsten snorts.

“I was going to say old, but yeah. Sinister works.” Camille mutters. None of them move, the prospect of actually entering the deathtrap in front of them too unnerving.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Kirsten finally says, marching forward. Cameron scrambles to grab his luggage and chases after her, Camille and Linus following hesitantly.

The lobby is almost worse than the exterior, shag carpet that probably hasn’t been cleaned since 1974 and wallpaper stained nearly black with grease. A heavy woman who looks old enough to have known Washington personally squints through comically thick glasses when she hears the door open.

“Hi.” Kirsten greets the woman sitting behind the counter, forcing a smile. “We’re checking in. For Johnson?” It’s the name the agency gives when sending them on overnight cases, something generic and impossible to trace. The woman peers through her coke-bottle lenses at them. She reaches under the counter and produces two ancient keys. Linus begins to hum Hotel California under his breath. She slides the keys across the counter. Kirsten picks them up, then frowns.

“Is it Maggie?” She asks, reading the nametag on the counter. Camille masks her laugh with a cough. The irony isn’t lost on any of them. The woman, presumably Maggie, nods. “We should have had four rooms booked.” Maggie sifts through the mess of paper on her desk to retrieve a logbook. There’s no computer to be seen. She flips it open, clearing her throat, and squints so hard at the page that Cameron suspects her eyes might actually be closed.

“Johnson, August 28th, two rooms.” Her voice is so deep that Cameron does a double take, almost expecting to find that on closer inspection they’re actually talking to Johnny Cash. She closes the book and looks up expectantly, as though that settles everything. Cameron and Kirsten exchange a glance.

“Um,” Cameron steps forward. “I guess somebody made a mistake. Do you have two more rooms available?” He tries to give her a charming smile, but the whole place is really starting to creep him out, and it comes out more like a grimace. She clucks her tongue, looking entirely unapologetic.

“Sorry, son. No rooms left.” It seems the night is destined to be as awful as possible, so he just sighs and rubs his head where he can feel the migraine starting.

“Alright. Can we get two cots?” He asks, then looks quickly back at Linus and Camille who are making eyes at each other and paying no attention to him. “Actually, one cot is probably fine.”

Maggie makes that clucking noise again.

“All our cots are broken. I’ll have Ernie bring over some extra sheets later.” She grumbles. Cameron frowns.

“Extra sheets? But what fo-” Kirsten pinches him. “Oh.” He blinks. “The floor. Good.” Starting to feel light headed from what he’s almost certain is black mould, he turns to stumble back into the parking lot. The motel is done in the usual style, a long row of rooms with their own entrances right on the sidewalk. Kirsten has the keys, and she hands him one with the number 7 written on it in sharpie.

“We’re bunking together.” She tells him, throwing the other key to Camille.

“You don’t want to share with Camille?” He asks. It hadn’t been until after he asked for the cot that he realized the group could split into pairs based off gender. She rolls her eyes.

“It’s fine. Linus will just sneak in at midnight anyways, and I’m not sure it will matter to either of them if I’m still in the bed.”

“Okayy.” He says, trying to remove that image permanently from his brain. They come up to room 7 and he slides the key into the lock, suddenly nervous to find out where they’ll be spending the next 12 hours. The lock sticks, of course it does, but he wrenches the door open and lets out a noise like a deflating balloon upon seeing the state of the room.

As they walk through the doorway, the bare bulb above them illuminates. Kirsten must have switched it on. The yellow light reveals the now familiar pairing of shag carpet and greasy wallpaper, this time furnished with a bed covered in stains that he apparently doesn’t need a blacklight to see. There’s no TV, or even a table, but a battered nightstand sits next to the bed. Cameron sets his suitcase down, and walks over to slide open the nightstand drawer. He picks up a brand new bible, and snorts.

“What?” Kirsten asks, putting her bag down next to his. He flaps the bible at her.

“Everything in this place was made in 1972, except this. This is brand new.” She bites her lip, but the smile shows through.

“It’s not that bad.”

He stared at her incredulously, and she sighs.

“Okay, it’s a horror movie.” She relents. He can’t help but agree. Camille bursts through their door, eyes wide in fear.

“Our room is disgusting, do you want to-” She glances around, and her eyebrows shoot up. Her face droops are she takes in the dismal condition of their lodgings. “Never mind. I think this is actually worse.” She raises her hands in defeat, and disappears as quickly as she came.

Cameron wanders into the bathroom, ignoring what is definitely a bloodstain on the tile, and resists the urge to bury his head in his hands. He never brings up his childhood, but the fact is, he was raised by wealthy parents. They would sooner have slept in the car than set foot in a place like this. He’s still adjusting to life with the agency, but this is a new low, even for him. He hears Kirsten call his name, and pokes his head back into the bedroom. She’s standing at the door, eyeing a disconcertingly thin man with a comb-over. He’s got an armful of sheets, and Cameron realizes Maggie must have sent him.

“Ernie, right?” He asks, as the man sets the sheets down on the bed. Ernie looks at him, hacks out a cough that goes so deep Cameron is surprised he doesn’t spit out a kidney, and then shuffles back out the door. Kirsten stands frozen to the spot, still processing his abrupt departure. Cameron isn’t sure whether to laugh, or grab Kirsten and run as far and as fast as his feet will allow him. He settles for grabbing the sheets and busying himself making up a bed on the floor. Kirsten watches him for a few seconds, then places her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing?”

“Making my bed?” He isn’t really sure what else this could look like. Suddenly, the sheet is snatched out of his hand, and he looks up to see Kirsten holding it and standing above him.

“Cameron, that carpet is disgusting.”

“Thank you, Stretch. I hadn’t noticed.” He holds out his hand for the sheet, but she doesn’t move.

“You can’t sleep on the floor.” She tells him. He sighs.

“Well, unless you’re going to invite me into the bed it’s either this or the bathtub.” She still doesn’t give him the sheet.

“Okay.” She says. He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay…?”

“Okay, let’s share the bed.”

He blinks. For a second, he considers declining, but the germaphobe in him finds the idea of sleeping on the ground too repulsive to acknowledge.

“I-are you sure?” They’re adults, he knows, they’re mature enough to share a bed. But he doesn’t want her to do this just because she feels obligated. She nods, balling the sheet and throwing it into the corner.

“I’m sure.” Her words are music to his ears.

The sun is beginning to set outside their grimy window, and he collapses onto the bed.

They’re both too tired to be hungry, and after Camille reminds them that they have to be up at the crack of dawn to track down the truck driver they’re after, they decide to just call it a night.

Kirsten makes fun of him when he buys a couple water bottles from the gas station down the street to brush his teeth, but he notices her grab one of them when she heads to the bathroom with her toothbrush. She returns a couple minutes later, and he blinks when he realizes what she’s wearing.

“I _knew_ I was missing a pair of boxers!” He shouts, startling her. She looks down, and then back at him. She’s also wearing the blue Henley he lent her the first night she stayed at his apartment.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She just shrugs, climbing in between the sheets next to him. He lays back on the pillow, wondering if a more uncomfortable bed exists anywhere on the planet. Kirsten hits the switch beside the bed, and the lamp on the nightstand goes dark. They lay in silence for a few moments, and he tries not to think about the fact that he could move his leg a few inches to the left and brush against her bare skin.

“Have you been sleeping in those the whole time?” He asks, unable to resist. Beside him, she sighs.

“Go to sleep, Cameron.”

“I’m just saying, you could have-”

He stops mid-sentence, when his lips are suddenly otherwise occupied, preventing him from talking. Kirsten, he realizes, is kissing him. She moves closer, and her legs tangle with his. It’s not much, but it’s skin on skin, and one of his hands cups her face, the other one curling around her waist. She sighs into his mouth, and he rolls her onto her back, shifting his weight onto his elbow. The hand he has at her waist tugs at the hem of her shit, _his_ shirt, and she breaks away, breathing hard. He isn’t sure what he expects her to say, but it’s not-

“No.” She pants. He jerks away from her like he’s been burned. His hands fly into the air, and he rolls so far away from her he’s practically hanging off the bed.

“I’m sorry, I-” He’s ashamed, face burning, he didn’t mean to push her, shouldn’t have let his feelings take over,but he feels slender fingers brush against his wrist, and falls silent.

“It’s okay.” She murmurs. “I just meant…not here.” He considers that, wonders how many strange pairings have consummated this bed. The thought makes his skin itch. Her fingers close around his wrist and she tugs, pulling him back in to her. He gladly complies, and as he inches closer she lays her head on his chest.

“So we’re…okay?” He asks, just needing to confirm. He can still feel the sting of rejection, wants to replace it with something better. He can feel her lips curve against his chest.

“We’re okay. I was trying to shut you up, but-” She sighs. “I guess that didn’t work.”

He grins into the dark.

“Alright, fine. Goodnight, Stretch.”

“Night.” She mumbles.

The quiet lasts for almost five minutes this time.

“Kirsten-”

“Cameron Goodkin we are not having sex in this disgusting motel.”

Even half-asleep, she manages to say it with authority. He presses a kiss to her temple, and she makes a noise of content. He’ll wait. For her, he would wait forever.

 


End file.
